


Same Old Blues

by Inaccessible Rail (strangetales)



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-30
Updated: 2016-12-30
Packaged: 2018-09-13 07:33:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9112921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strangetales/pseuds/Inaccessible%20Rail
Summary: “The first time he encounters modern bathing rituals, he is moderately suspicious.”





	

**Author's Note:**

> I asked Kat (abbadons-little-witch) for a simple, no nonsense prompt so I could just finish something for once in my life, and she mentioned Killian Jones and showering, which could have easily been dirty but instead I made it sad and intensely introspective. Killian gives me a lot of feelings, all right? About literally everything. Man could eat a goddamn donut and I’d have to come up with some tragic backstory about how he’d never eaten a fucking donut before. Anyway. This is for her, I guess. xo

Killian Jones’ childhood memories are fuzzy at best, sloppily pieced together and often lacking in helpful context. Being as old as he is, his mind had been inevitably forced to adapt and decide which were worth keeping and which were rubbish, unhelpful things. Honestly, he wishes he had more of a say in the matter, considering the fact that there’s plenty he would rather forget, and more he’d rather remember. He can’t recall the tenor of his mother’s voice, for example, but he can still feel the rough, open-palm of his father’s hand against the side of his head. He’s starting to lose track of when he had kissed Milah for the first time; it flits in and out of his memory like the flame of a dwindling candle. Sometimes it’s on the deck of his ship, other times it’s in some nameless tavern. Years and miles and memories, and moments away. Far, far away.

It wasn’t all bad, though. After he had first met Emma, he could remember trying to figure out where he could have possibly smelled her hair before. There’s a flash of blonde in his memory but it’s distant and fuzzy, piggybacking on the tails of some miserable hangover, and he had more important things to worry about at the time. He can vividly recall when he had first bravely scaled a ship’s mast, the sun beaming hot and bright on the top of his head. He’d have a burn something fierce to crow about below decks for the next few weeks but it had been worth it. To see the ocean, the world, as a vast, endless horizon.

And, perhaps unusually enough, he can recall Liam, just a boy himself, trying in vain to get his younger brother to wash up for supper, because family or no, they were going to be _respectable_ , dammit, and Killian Jones would not come to dinner riddled with fleas. It had been a bit rough at first; Killian had been all limbs, uncooperative and wiggly and Liam only a few years older, frustrated and hungry. He had practically dunked him in the barrel at first, a bit wider than the usual fare, but made of damp, soft wood, barely held together by some mediocre ironwork.

“No!” he can remember the high quality of his own, childish voice, nasally and desperate, perhaps a few teeth missing, “I won’t!”

He might have said something else, something crueler, even if he was just a boy. And now all he can think of is Henry, all of his many father-figures trying to find a place to fit into his life and he wishes he could just have one more moment with Liam to _apologize_. Not that Liam would let him anyway, but when he thought of the tantrums he’d thrown, thinking he was angry with his brother, that it was somehow all _his_ fault. It had nothing to do with Liam, but he was there, and he never left, and he tried to keep his younger brother mildly clean.

“If you’re not still I’ll make you go back to the tannery,” he had threatened, his small hands hard on Killian’s shoulders. “You’ll smell like burnt hair again, is that what you want?”

He had stilled then, considered his brother’s words and the water that was actually warm for once, and decided that the risk of punishment outweighed the rebellious churning in his gut and let Liam get on with it.

“Good, now, stay still.”

The soap Liam used had an earthy quality, and he can still smell it in his nostrils when he steps outside on a particularly wet day; the smell of the rain and the mud blending together. He can remember the clear, soapy water running a bit brown with his mess. Marveling at the softness of his skin afterwards.

“Shut your eyes, brother,” Liam would gently request, his voice calmer now that Killian had been threatened into a state of serenity. If Killian had peeked, he might even have noticed a small smile on his brother’s normally stern face.

So, finally, he would shut his eyes, and feel the cool breeze on his wet skin, his flesh prickling and rising. And then the warm relief, the heaviness of his brother’s hand over his eyes to keep the soap from stinging, the warm water running over the back of his head, rinsing the soap from his hair and face.

These hygienic performances would last maybe 15 minutes at most, what with Killian’s thrashing, but in his memory they are longer and comforting. They were a reminder that somebody had cared for him once, had loved him regardless of his tantrums; had kept him safe and relatively well fed and only wanted him to be happy. It would get corrupted along the way, but then, didn’t everything?

\--

The first time he encounters modern bathing rituals, he is moderately suspicious. At first he was quick to concede to the reality of his injuries, of which there were many and not at all minor. Broken ribs and bruised organs and all manner of unseemly things that they had shown him on something called an “x-ray,” but regardless, his body had needed it.

He had assumed he had been standing under the hot water for 5 minutes at most, except there had been a sudden, frantic knocking on the door and one of those timid nurses asking him if he was alright.

He had thought she was being mildly overprotective, concerned over her job, perhaps, only to glance at the clock a few minutes later and notice that he had been bathing for a half-hour _at least_. What could he have gotten done in that time? Found his hook? Escaped? Given the Dark One a proper thrashing?

“Waste of bloody time,” he had mumbled to himself, painfully forcing his legs through breeches that were suddenly far tighter than they ever truly needed to be, pulling a damp, uncomfortable shirt over his battered torso. Not enough time, never enough time. There was no point in the changing of a well-tested formula; water, soap, rag. Move on.

\--

Unsurprisingly, he adjusted. Stopped bathing on the ship, used showers, even took a bath on occasion (like some pampered royal, no doubt, although those were better when Emma was involved). Still, there was always something about it he couldn’t quite get used to.

It was the time that would pass without him having realized it, the moments in which he would stand beneath, hot, heavy water for no other reason than to _feel better_. Of course, he was always getting clean, the practical applications remained, but still, who needed more than 10 minutes to bathe oneself?

“Don’t you have enough to feel guilty about,” Emma had asked quietly, her small form curved around his shoulders, heavy blankets pulled up to their ears, “Why not just have this?”

“Because I have _this_ ,” he had gently returned, bringing her fingers to his lips, “More than enough.”

He had realized his folly when it had been _Emma_ who had pointed it out to him, Princess of Misthaven she may be, but selfish and pampered she most certainly was not. Despite the fact that she appeared to have gotten quite used to his various attentions, his mugs of hot tea and lunch from Granny’s at the station, he could still tell that there was a part of her that didn’t feel as if she quite _deserved_ it. And that was unfathomable to him. How Emma Swan could think that she didn’t deserve _everything_.

\--

The washroom in their house lies just on the smaller side of ridiculous. He could probably fit at least 4 hospital-sized showers inside of it. Two of Granny’s, maybe. A dozen of his brother’s soapy barrels, _at least_. There’s a large window above the tub, and sometimes when they’ve let the steam collect, they’ll have to crack it open to let some of it escape.

It’s pretty simple, as far as washrooms go. He’s seen the magazines, the “themes,” the paintings and boxes and bottles every which where. It doesn’t have a painting, but the window looks out onto the harbor, and you can see the moon if you’re seated in the tub.

There are some candles, but they’re from the Jolly and they’re permanently affixed inside old pieces of hammered tin, covered in years of wax. There’s soap, but it’s the earthy kind. Emma never much cared for the fancy smells either, claimed it gave her a headache, and Killian was inclined to agree.

\--

He’ll always remember the night he returned from the Underworld. The moments in between returning and waking up the next morning, only to be driven away _yet again_. Lost in some strange land without Emma Swan and he’s not quite sure his heart can handle the strain of it (the losing).

But he’ll remember this evening, he knows, because it is slow. Irresponsibly so, as if time had stopped. As if they had sat in that soapy water for _days_ , only it wasn’t a waste of time. He failed to see how Emma’s tears might be a waste of time, her sighs of relief, and the small smile she couldn’t seem to contain.

“Shut your eyes, love,” he says softly, laughing at the incredulous look on her face, “Indulge me, would you?”

The soft light of the flickering candles bounces off the walls of the darkened room and highlights the sharper angles of her features. He could stare all day, but he knows the restlessness that lives within her bones and they’ve been here for hours now, skin starting to prune, that singular thirst from too much wine building at the back of his throat.

There’s an empty cup on the floor that they haven’t touched (drinking from the bottle was easier), and he fills it with water from the tub, still warm and vaguely bubbly.

“What are you even doing?” Her eyes are still closed but he can tell she’s falling asleep with the slight slurring of her words. She’s curious, but not enough that she’s planning on moving or opening her eyes anytime soon.

“Keep them shut, darling, I promise all will be revealed.”

_Good, now, stay still._

_Shut your eyes, brother._

Emma is wet and lovely between his legs, but all he can see is the tightness of her shoulders, the weight of the last few days thinking she had abandoned him (that maybe she was no different than everyone else). He feels the gentle wiggling of her toes beneath the water, a reminder that no matter how relaxed she may appear, Emma has always struggled to stay still (and he is no different).

As he lets the water gently fall over the lovely slope of her forehead, the soap running down her neck and over her shoulders, he can’t help but feel that he’s found a moment that will stay. The years will pass, he will grow old, his memories of Liam’s death, Neverland, and Gold, they will all fall away, _washed away_ , like so many other terrible (and treasured) memories, he will lose them to time. But this, this moment, he thinks, he will take his time, and remember.

**Author's Note:**

> If you liked this, please consider following my writing blog, [@hencethebravery](http://hencethebravery.tumblr.com).


End file.
